


Concerning Hobbits and Elves

by wordslikelightning



Series: Concerning Hobbits and Elves [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, John is a hobbit, Just hear me out, M/M, Sherlock is an elf
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-10
Updated: 2013-02-10
Packaged: 2017-11-28 19:34:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/678122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordslikelightning/pseuds/wordslikelightning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson, hobbit healer, meets a mysterious injured elf when all he was trying to do was relax at the Prancing Pony.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Concerning Hobbits and Elves

Years after the great war, Middle Earth had returned almost back to normal. Well, as normal as a place can be when it is full to the brim of elves, hobbits, men and a large variety of creatures beyond imagination. Though, most of the folk around here do not know many of these beings (or have the inclination to). Living in the Shire is similar to living in a glass ball. Those here go about their business, unaware of the happenings past their border. Many still insist that there was no war, that grandfather and his companions made it up upon their return. Hobbits can be very set in their ways. Once one bold hobbit dares to push the edges of society and pop the bubble, they are labeled ‘a disturber of the peace’. That was the fate of John Watson’s grandfather and his three friends. 

Oh, the stories they told! Tales of kings, legions of elves, giant tusked fighting beasts and hoards of orc. The children soon lost interest in what grandfather had to say, but John never did. Samwise would occasionally tell him that he reminded him of his dear friend, Frodo. John knew it was a compliment from the stories he told, but he always had this tone. One of bittersweet reminiscing.

That took him years to understand. 

The Watsons are a rather little known family in the Shire. They come from the Gamgees (Samwise being the most prominent), but John was always different. He would rather read books than play in the river or participate in foot races. John would spend his spare time in the healer’s store rooms than sample the long bottom leaf the other hobbit boys had stolen from who knows where. Because of this, the healer took him on as his apprentice. Young John learned what plants to use to stop most symptoms and how to set broken bones. It was not long until he could take patients himself.

 John had been practicing for a few years now. His prowess in that field had given him quite a reputation and that is why he had been called to Bree to heal a poor child who had caught an illness the local physician could not cure. After treating her the best he could (being quite confident that she would make a full recovery), he found himself at the Inn of the Prancing Pony.

Tending to his patient had taken just under three days and he had procured a room so he could lay out his supplies and have refuge when the sun had set. 

As he sipped his pint in a secluded corner of the pub, he thought about the journey home he’d make tomorrow and hoped that the hobbits had not all fallen ill in his absence. A scream pierced shattered him from his revelry. The inn fell eerily silent as a woman stumbled in. The night’s chill crept its tendrils through the door the woman had left agape.

 “Some- someone is injured and they desperately need medical attention!” She gasped the words out in a rush, her hand still clasped at her décolletage. John quickly went to the woman, coughing to draw her attention to his level (being well accustom to having to do this). John looked her in the eye, despite the obvious height difference, and spoke in the voice he uses to calm his charges. 

“I am a competent healer, miss. Take me there.” She just looked at me for a moment. Maybe it was the conviction with which John spoke that caused her to turn on the spot and hurry to where help was needed. He found himself looking at an unmoving cloaked figure, long libs protruding from the velvet. The clearly expensive fabric was torn around the bottom and showed flecks of mud. John slowly and carefully (bracing the neck and back, not wanting to cause further damage), turned him over. When he had, the woman gasped. The hobbit looked up and saw the most graceful being he’d ever seen. The hood had fallen back revealing a ghostly pale, angular face; a straight and slightly upturned nose, a strong jawline and very prominent cheekbones. Curled hair the color of a raven’s wings appeared as the hood continued to fall and a set of pointed ears. John tore his eyes from his face, focusing on the faint and ragged sounds of his breathing. There were three tattered tears in the elf’s traveling cloak above his knee. The halfling pulled back the material, finding identical gashed in the ivory skin with scarlet rivulets stripped the length of this leg.

 “We must get him back to my room. All my equipment is there and he has already lost a substantial amount of blood.” John turned as he spoke, a bit startled upon seeing that quite a crowd had followed us from the inn. A man stepped forward, crouched down and scooped up the limp figure. He turned, setting a gentle trot towards the Prancing Pony.

 John lead them to his room, having them lay the injured elf on his bed (which seemed comically small with the elf’s mile long limbs), and shooed everyone out. He needed peace to work. John set into the familiar rhythm of healing. Clean, stitch, bind. Search for other less lethal injuries. Once he had done all that John could, the only thing left was to wait and watch. Ensuring that the elf’s condition did not worsen. The hobbit had applied some Klamath weed to the wounds in his bindings, which would need changing if the bleeding did not slow fast enough. 

John could see the lines of pain, as slight as they may be, begin to ease out of the elf’s face and he moved from unconsciousness to sleep. A good few hours and cups of tea later, the elf began to stir. With his eyes still closed, the elf spoke in a soft drawling voice that was a smooth as silk. 

“You have an uncommon affinity for healing and concern for other beings for a halfling from the Shire.” John jumped slightly at the break in the silence. He turned, rather speechless at the sound of the other’s voice. The smoothness of it was almost palpable. John shifted in his chair, clearing his throat, regaining his grip on his thoughts. He scraped together a reply.

 “You’re a bit out of sorts yourself, elf. If you don’t mind me saying.” A dry chuckle left the other man’s throat, his eyes still closed. It was reminiscent of crunching leaves underfoot in autumn, even if it was edged in weary pain. John left his seat to fill a spare mug with water for his charge.

Once he had moved next to the other man, his eyes opened. They were the most mesmerizing things he had ever seen. They were like opals, constantly shifting in hue, forever indecisive. They also made the person on the other end of his gaze feel like they were being dissected and divulging their deepest secrets. John mentally shook himself and held out the mug to the elf. “Thought you might need it. You have been out for a while.”

Long pale fingers gripped the cup and guided it to his mouth, nodding his head in thanks. John moved away, moving things about to have something to do with his hands.

 Silence filled the room again and John could not stand it. He turned, leaning on the wall to find that heavy gaze on him. The elf had slid up, resting his head on the headboard. His curls crushed on one side and disheveled on the other (which would look terrible on anyone else, being an elf is so unfair), and his legs almost fitting on the undersized mattress. “What you did, knowing things about me when you had just become conscious, your eyes were ever still closed, that was brilliant.” 

The elf’s eyes widen almost imperceptibly. “You think so? That is not the response I normally get after telling someone about themselves.” He sounded almost startled.

 “What do they normally say?” John asked, seriously interested. 

“ _‘Antolle ulua sulrim.’_ ”  came the reply out of a mouth twisted up in the corner. “Or to you, ‘piss off’ may be more familiar.” John chuckled, sensing the elf’s subtle sense of humor rather than hearing it.

 “I’m John, by the way, John Watson. I doubt I could say anything else that you have not already figured out.” He offered his hand to the slender man with a warm smile. The elf looked at his hand for a minute, as if he did not know what to do. Just as John thought that that just might be the case and was about to retract his hand, the elf wrapped his pale fingers around John’s.

 He looked up, giving their hands a shake, and said, “They call me Sherlock.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading!  
> I don't own anything, I just like to play here. The writers and creators get all the credit for making such wonderful places and characters.  
> Most works are not beta read. All mistakes are my own.
> 
> I really liked this idea when I wrote it ages ago and I thought with The Hobbit out now would be a good time to share.  
> I can be found at theseeyesofmine or wordslikelightning on Tumblr if anyone is interested.
> 
> Thanks to kandy for correcting some of my mistakes!
> 
> I really would like to continue this series at some point.


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